


Where things are and where they go

by laliquey



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Fights, Friendship/Love, Insecurity, Jealousy, Makeup Sex, Sleepovers, Starting Over, Trampolines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21860857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: It's weird for everyone.
Relationships: Charlie (Marriage Story)/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 109





	1. Campfire

**Author's Note:**

> Set in LA after Charlie starts the UCLA residency. Thanks for clicking!

He was one of those guys who had no business in a yoga class. Ten years earlier such interloping was a weak ploy to pick up women, but later it became an experiment for men who'd been called a selfish asshole so many times they thought it might be a shortcut to not being one.

Getting there by 5:30 was a stretch after work so you were always in the back row, and Charlie was probably there out of a wish to be invisible. There was no way, though. He was too big to maintain a proper perimeter and his hand kept arcing through your space. He was bad at right & left, and so tightly wound he probably left feeling worse than when he started.

"You should get here earlier. So you won't have to be next to me," he mumbled the second time you unrolled beside him. After his third and final class, he took you out for an apology beverage for sort of falling on you during a failed Vriksasana. You learned that his ex-sister-in-law gave him her old yoga studio punch card, since going was newly inconvenient for her and it might be "good for him."

He was utterly charming. It also seemed like he wasn't used to being terrible at things. He explained _stage_ right versus _house_ right, so the yoga teacher facing the class and verbally reversing their non-theater orientation to make it easier to follow actually made it harder, but only for him.

Even before you knew his whole life and geographical story, you didn't think it would last. But it'd be fun, for a while.

_________________________________________________________________

It's been about three weeks now.

He talks about his son a lot but you doubt you'll ever meet him, since your time together is firmly adult. He takes you out for beautiful Japanese food arranged like jewels on a plate, and after dark you weave through the grid of street lamps outside LACMA holding hands. The first time he takes you to bed, he's interested in your flexibility and how weird it can get; the sex is good but the laughing is even better. The second time is quite different: he's serious and straightforward, with a wistfulness in his eyes like he's seeing something you can't.

It'll probably continue like this for another month, maybe a little longer...the encounters will grow in number, but you'll never spend more than a few hours together at a time. You won't even know each other well enough to fight about anything, which will make it easier when things dissolve and you'll each move on without consulting the other.

The inevitability pivots slightly when he asks you for a favor.

He must be driving, because he's half yelling. "You can say no," he says. "In fact, please do if any of this is too much, but Henry's frothing at the mouth about some indoor trampoline park. The cousins have him all riled up and they're going next weekend, but he's nervous about it and wants to practice first. So...I'm asking if you'd show him how to do it. And again, you can say no."

"I mean-" Henry's been a faraway prince until now, a myth. "Why can't you?"

"Because I'm huge, and my foot'll punch through a trampoline or I'll accidentally hurt another kid or something! I've thought about it from every angle and I don't think I can make myself do it."

You're silent. You like his Henry stories, but beyond that...

"I know it's way too early to meet him and you probably don't even want to. He'll be shy and you'll be guarded. Guarded but pleasant, and that's why it'll work."

He sounds like a director right now.

"He won't be lovey with you, but you don't want that anyway. He'll trust you."

Apparently he's a very good one.

"Okay," you say. "I'll do it."

_________________________________________________________________

Saturday afternoon, you're introduced as dad's friend who is a girl - _but not a girlfriend_ \- who happens to be good at trampolines. Henry seems skeptical and tightens more closed with every minute. You do, too - it's awkward that the employees treat the three of you as a unit, which you are not, and the waivers are so ominous you regret agreeing to this. But then you're asked what color of special sticky socks you want and Charlie's shelling out too much money and it's too late to go anywhere but forward.

Charlie has to sit in the dismal spectator area at the lip of the arena, and Henry allows himself to be led out to the bouncing floors. "We'll start small," you tell him, and find a lesser-used corner away from the foam pit, and get him used to what it feels like when the floor lightly flexes. "Is this okay?"

"I think so."

You do it a little longer, and step off to the side and hold his hands while he gathers the courage to jump by himself. "I'm doing it!" he says, and soon scares himself by being too aggressive but recovers fast. "I hate how that felt to my stomach," he says, and resumes bouncing at a level that's comfortable. Two hands reduce to one and your phone's blowing up in your back pocket. It's Charlie, texting to ask you both to look over so he can wave.

You get back on and jump alongside Henry, sometimes in unison and sometimes not so he knows what to expect around other kids. He gradually gets enough confidence to bounce by himself, and kicks his legs out like little scissors and joyfully screams that he's doing the splits.

Soon, he's sweaty, with strands of hair sticking to his face. He moon-bounces across the long strips of trampoline, runs up the ramps, and hurls himself into the foam pit like a wild animal. It stops mattering whether you're there or not, so you tell him what you're doing and go back to sit with Charlie, who is glowing.

"This is great. So great! I can't believe he's playing with kids he doesn't know. That's not a thing for him. Like, ever."

"He got brave fast, don't you think?"

"He did." You sit quietly, both watching, until Charlie asks, "Are you wearing an atomic sports bra?" He reaches over and feels around the four-inch wide band on your back and smiles, very proud of himself. "I thought so."

_________________________________________________________________

You all go to dinner after. Henry's just barely warmed to you, which is fine, and you and Charlie maintain a cordial distance.

He gets a text at the table. "Oh shit."

"What?"

"The water's shut off to our building. Something happened with the water main down the street and they're working on it, but..." He sighs. "If it doesn't get straightened out we'll get a hotel tonight."

Henry droops. "But I hated it last time. Hotels are bad luck for us."

"Not as bad as no running water." He disappears into his phone for a while, trying to book something while you and Henry slowly eat and wait. "Oh my God, the only thing I can find is at the Ritz Carlton for six hundred a night...really?"

His finances are a mystery, though you detect an undercurrent of mild but constant distress. "The L.A. Marathon's tomorrow."

He sneers. "Oh, right. Because every urban area needs one for some reason." He looks for a few more minutes and Henry seems to shrink even smaller. Then he looks at you.

"Are you in my dad's play?"

"No," you answer. "And can I tell you something?"

"Yeah."

"I don't really like plays."

Charlie doesn't look up or comment because he already knows; he claims he will change your mind but hasn't pushed it, which is nice. He finally sets down the phone and rubs his eyes, presumably with no arrangements made.

"You could stay with me," you offer. "I've got camping stuff. You can set up in the living room."

Henry's big eyes widen and he remembers that he tentatively likes you. "Can we, dad?"

"Hmm, I don't know." Charlie gives you a light kick under the table and mouths, _How is this going to work._

 _I don't know,_ you say, and kick back.

"Dad, I want to!"

"Fine," he says. "But we're only doing this because it's an emergency."

At home, you use that word again, because it's the one Henry will repeat to his mother. "I hope we can make this emergency as pleasant as possible."

Your camping gear's up on a high shelf and Charlie helps get it down. "Leave the tent up there," you say. "It probably smells like campfire smoke."

"Oh."

"I figure we'll set him up on the floor and you can sleep on the couch."

"Good. That's what I was thinking, too."

He gets down the rolled-up sleeping bag and the cushy pad for underneath, then the lantern, and the mess kit, too. "Oh my God," Charlie brings the big aluminum backpack frame down and holds it like it's a weird artifact. It's unclear whether the disdain is genuine or if he's trying to be funny. "You actually wear this thing packed full of shit?"

"Yeah."

He snorts. "Why?!"

Maybe it's because you grew up in Oregon. Or maybe it's because humans belong outdoors and not in airless theaters doing navel-gazing plays. "You know, a lot of what you like is foreign to me, too."

"One of many reasons this is going so well," he says, and bows a little apology. He's stupidly lovable with the white closet light pull-string pooling in his hair, but you pause.

_This keeps happening._

"You know how sometimes we'll say something borderline shitty, then it twists into joke and evaporates? It's fun, but that can't be all we do."

"Fuck you," he says sweetly, and moves in for a soft kiss on the mouth.

"I'm serious."

"I know," he says, and looks down at his armful of camping equipment. "I'm sorry."

You each take a breath and re-set before exiting the closet.

Charlie builds Henry's little nest near the couch and they discuss what elements of what they're currently wearing can stand in for pajamas while you collect spare pillows and blankets for the couch. You think you're done, but Henry looks up with those big sad eyes. "What do we do now?"

"Um..." An hour ago, even a minute ago you wouldn't have known, but ideas surface like magic. "Hang on."

You get your brownest, clunkiest shoes from the closet and have Charlie take his off, too. They're the logs for a pretend campfire. Your old flashlight's too dim to be useful, so a crumpled up red paper napkin wrapped around Charlie's phone in flashlight mode becomes the fire.

Henry comes to life. "How's this thing work?" The mess kit fits together like an aluminum clam, and you disassemble it and show him how the piece that binds it together is a screw-on frying pan handle. Then you put it all back together so he can take it apart himself.

Charlie swoops in, maybe to give you a break, or maybe because he wants to play, too. He has invisible butter in his pocket, and they fry up some imaginary fish.

"Is it time to flip 'em?"

"Not yet! And they stink!"

"Hang on, hang on..." Charlie says with a huge frown. "I don't remember going fishing! Where the hell did we get these?"

Henry tips back, ecstatic. "I don't know!"

"Do you think they're safe to eat?"

"I'm sure not!" He tips the empty pan onto the rug and Charlie dives over to kiss him. They wrestle on the floor a little, and when Henry escapes to the sleeping bag, Charlie sits on the couch and surveys his own bedding situation and seems content it will work.

Henry rakes his nails over the ripstop nylon of the sleeping bag, enjoying the sound, and asks you, "How come you have all this stuff?"

"Because I used to hike a lot. I even went on a twelve day backpacking trip in Colorado once. My feet were all blistered and gross by the end, and I had to wash blood out of my socks."

He is delighted and disgusted by this.

"And I promise that sleeping bag's been thoroughly washed since then." Henry nods, but Charlie's sitting there with crossed legs, sort of covering his mouth and probably wondering if you've ever fucked anyone in it.

"Well, I'm gonna try to catch up on some work," you lie, and retire your room to browse Zappos and re-read the long Daily Bruin article from when Charlie was new. He and Henry somehow wring another hour of play out of the boring things around the apartment - the frying pan is used to cook the worst concoctions and there's a constant panic over how to get the smell out of the rug.

Around nine, you visit the kitchen for a glass of water. Henry's snuggled close in his father's lap and listening to him tell the story of _The Boy and the Filberts,_ and Charlie pauses to announce, "Since it's about bedtime we should say goodnight to our hostess. Thank you for solving our problem tonight, and I'm sorry that we won't see you in the morning 'cause you have to go to work so early."

You play along. "Oh, right! Super early."

"What's your job?" Henry asks.

"I work for the electric company."

"Do you ride up in the bucket and work on the poles?"

"No, I work in the legal department."

"Do you make great big piles of money?"

Odd question. "I guess I do alright," you say, and he gives you a literal thumbs-up.

"That's way better than going up in a bucket."

How is this child real? "You're a very interesting young man and it was nice to meet you today. I hope you have fun bouncing with your cousins."

"Thanks."

"You guys can lock the door from the inside and shut it behind you when you leave tomorrow. Goodnight to you both."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

After you do your bathroom routine and wave from your bedroom door, Charlie mouths _I'll come see you._

You hear him explain "finger toothbrushes" to Henry in the bathroom, and they talk softly for a while in the living room, then settle down into silence. Finally, Charlie tiptoes in and slips into bed. "I'm sorry to tell you what to do in your own place," he whispers. "And I'm sorry to lie about us, it's just...I don't know what's appropriate for him to see or know. It's nice but also very weird that we're here right now."

"I probably overstepped, but the Ritz? No."

"Please, you did no such thing. I started it when I made you his fucking trampoline coach."

He kisses your shoulder and wraps himself around you from behind. It's quiet a long time, but then he suddenly asks, "When were you hiking in Colorado?"

"Last summer."

"After the big breakup?"

He knows only the barest details: Mercurial guy, massive temper. But he's right. "It was supposed to be four of us, but instead it was three."

"Oh." His voice is warm on the back of your neck. "I wasn't making fun of you or your backpack, by the way." A gentle hand travels up under your sleep shirt and closes around your breast. It's nice to feel so held and you figure you'll fall asleep that way, but he shifts and is as hard as he's ever been up against your ass.

This seems really off-limits. "Should we?"

"Yeah." He turns you over and presses himself between your legs, right where he'd disappear into you if not for your pajama bottoms and his boxers. "We should." Kisses climb up your neck and you're reminded how much you love all of his weight on you. "On the floor so the bed doesn't squeak."

He kisses and grinds against you until you could come from that alone; when the bed springs issue their first chirp you both drag all the pillows and blankets down to the rug. Charlie takes complete charge: he strips you both, knees your leg up, and shoves himself inside you all at once and it feels so, so good. Everything's deeper and harder because there's no give of a mattress beneath you. Both of you are halfway holding your breath to be quiet and your other senses seem sharpened - the salt-taste of his skin and the warm, soapy scent behind his ear are almost more than you can stand. Your fingers grip the ridge of his back muscles and it takes almost nothing to come.

"Did you..." he whispers. "Did you? That fast, really?"

"Shhh, yes."

"Oh, wow."

He leans down until your foreheads touch and it's so intimate to be this connected; he just barely moves and your breath catches. He kisses you and starts fucking you again, deep and slow and bites back a whimper and says, "This little window of ours...is one of my favorite things."

You grab your own forearm behind his back so you'll be that much closer, and you can tell he's getting close from the way he breathes. "I can't...I don't think I can wait."

"Shhh, then don't." You widen your legs in permission; he digs in harder and it's over fast for him, too, a long shudder and a soft groan as he tries so hard to be quiet. He falls into you with open mouth kisses, and it's such an unholy mess when he finally pulls out you'd both be laughing about it if you weren't so worried about making noise.

He settles down next to you and you twist a lock of his hair around your finger until it starts to feel like silk. For the second time you think this is how you'll fall asleep, but once again, he's wide awake.

"I can't thank you enough for today. And tonight. This wasn't a litmus test with my kid or anything, but you were so good with him."

"He's great. And I didn't really do all that much."

"Your instincts were spot on, though. You don't talk down to him and know when to pull back. Anyway, I owe you."

"No you don't. It was fun."

You lie there in silence until the floor starts to feel unforgiving under your shoulder and hip. You've never actually _slept_ with Charlie, and it sounds about as titillating as what just happened...the warmth and vulnerability, the messed up hair, and have you even seen him with his eyes closed outside of blinking or fucking? It doesn't seem so, and suddenly you want it more than anything.

Right before you invite him back up into bed, Charlie closes your little window without even knowing it's there. "I'm gonna get back out there in case he wakes up."

He helps you shove all the bedding back up where it belongs and re-dresses, then thanks you rather formally and kisses you one last time. It's sweet enough, but you're awake for quite a while after he's gone, wondering about what this relationship looks like from the outside and what it truly is. 

_________________________________________________________________

In the morning you hear the sounds of things being put away in the closet. It's odd to be uptight in your own home, but you wait, so Henry will think you're at work. You have to pee and you definitely should have done it last night for UTI reasons...but you wait. They're talking about you.

"Does that lady really work for the electric company?"

"Yes she does."

"Is that how you know her?"

"No, we met in an exercise class. That's how she knows about trampolines and hiking. Honey, please don't touch that. This isn't our place."

"Have you been here before?"

Whatever Charlie's doing, he stops. "What makes you ask that?"

"Because you know where things are and where they go."

"Well, I guess most apartments are kinda the same," he says in a masterful non-answer, and when it's time to go, he doesn't peek into the bedroom to say goodbye. They just leave.

He doesn't text either, and you emerge and look around to see if he might've left a note, but there's nothing. You try to calculate the past sixteen hours. It was positive, yes, but your history with men isn't great, and this one's so much more complicated than any predecessor. He's been honest and hasn't put up any red flags, but have there been pink ones you ignored, because you like him and want this so much?

You text him.

**Getting TONS done @ work - so early no one else is here!**

You expect a sarcastic answer, like

**Shouldn't you be at church young lady**

But he doesn't text back.

Hours go by, and there's no response at all.

That afternoon, you venture out and into a cheap walk-in pedicure to lift your mood enough to not sink into overthinking it. As the red lacquer paints on, it feels like a sexy treat (you were having sex not long ago, remember that? And remember how needy and sweet he was, the time he didn't want to leave?). Maybe he's a selfish asshole who's using you and good at hiding it (so many of them are), but at least you have cute toes now.

A text pings and your heart lurches.

**Phone beyond dead from being our campfire light all night.**

**I'll call later.**

You're vacuuming up a rice spill in the kitchen and don't hear it when he does. In fact, you sort of give up and quit checking your phone, but when you finally do, there's a message.

"Hey, I'm sorry to disappear all morning. And it was the height of rudeness to sneak out, but it was probably better for Henry that way." It's quiet; he's not driving or yelling and you wonder where he is. "You won't believe this, but I want to do that Cahuenga Peak hike in Griffith Park. You know, the one with the tree?"

Huh.

"I'm not saying I'll be good at it and I doubt it'll lead to any multi-day backpacking trips, but I want to try it with you, maybe next weekend, if you want." He pauses again. "So, um...thanks again for yesterday. Henry's still talking about it and I'm still thinking about it. Okay, this is getting long. Call me when you have a minute, okay? Thanks, and I love you. So much. Okay, bye."

It's unreal that you can listen to this...again. He might even say it again, and you'll say it, too.

You bring up his contact info in slow-motion, trying to get ready to a) hit call, and b) speak, but it vibrates in your hand and you scream and drop the phone.

_It's him._

"Hi!"

"Hi," he says, "Are you okay? Why are you laughing so hard?"

The adrenaline is _insane._ "I was just calling you back and it rang!"

"Did you get my voicemail?"

"Yes." Breathe. "I did indeed."

"Good, I'm adding to it. So next weekend, maybe I could cook for us since we always go out, and you can spend the night over here, if you want. It's weird that we've never done that. Last night doesn't really count."

You feel hot all over and relief prickles in your fingertips. "That sounds perfect."

"Hey, what are you doing right now?"

Trying not to die. "Very little."

"I'm free for the rest of today, and I know you have to work early tomorrow, but...maybe we could meet somewhere public to keep us out of bed. Not that I don't want that like air, but...I don't care what we do, I just wanna see you."

"Okay, where?"

"Anywhere. You decide."

You slide on sandals, glad for the fresh pedicure. "Remember the yoga studio?"

"There's no way in hell I'm doing that again."

"No, remember the timewarp dive bar one block over? The one you're worried's going to get turned into a cat spa?"

"Or a yarn store. Go on."

"It's about halfway for both of us."

"Yeah, okay. And how about a two drink maximum, we go for a walk after, and both of us are home by six."

"I'm on my way."

"Me too. Oh, and that thing I said?" His voice gets so soft and low it's like aural velvet. "I'm gonna say it to your face."

"Fuck you. I'm gonna say it more times than you can stand."

"Not possible," he says, and you hear the faint jingle of keys and a door shutting behind him.


	2. Pink Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie gets a suspect piece of mail, which leads to a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahhh, thanks for reading! :) I hope future updates won't take as long as this one did.

It's idiotic to think you can make it to Canter's Deli and back over the lunch hour, but you're too invested to turn back now.

Charlie's coming over for Friday night dinner so you're getting a box of New York-y black and white cookies, but now, in traffic, you realize it would've been smarter to go home to clean up the kitchen instead. The recipe you're trying was prepped early in the morning and will finish in the oven later, but if Charlie sees the mess it took to get it to that point, he might turn on his heel and leave. It smelled great during assembly - browned chicken, mushrooms, Marsala, and butter, and you're not worried about it tasting good, but...fuck. This all could've been planned better.

There's no leaving work early and you race home at five. On the bright side, Charlie's often late these days. His play's kicked his life into a gear you can't fathom, and he's busier now. _Much_ busier, and you're lucky to see him once a week. Sometimes he's too busy to shave, and you never know if he's going to show up looking like a hot pirate or just regular hot.

You immediately start cramming dirty dishes into the dishwasher and feel better already. It should be a good night. For starters, Charlie's all yours until eleven the next morning, an outrageous luxury lately. Second, you're due to switch out your NuvaRing, which he thinks is sexy as fuck and likes helping with. You've entered a new phase of domestic harmony in your limited time with him: you do laundry together and he helps make the bed. It's never spoken, but you both love the little escape and like to pretend it's a world you live in all the time.

The mess is almost manageable by the time he lets himself in with his key, which you gave him on a light-up BB-8 keyring. "Hey." His face is a tempting in-between clean-shaven and pirate, and he greets you with a kiss. "Oh, wow. I don't think I've ever seen you in work clothes. You look great."

"Thanks." You're still in a blouse and skirt, but also barefoot so he seems about seven feet tall. The dishwasher's been kicked shut so now it only looks like you're rinsing minimal breakfast dishes, like a total non-slob. He leans against the counter, calm as an old tree while you're fluttering inside from all the hurrying.

"I can work on dishes if you want to change into something else," he offers, but you can't let him see the shit show that's in the dishwasher.

"It's okay. I'm almost done."

He looks you over with soft eyes. "Is your hair held up by one pin?"

It's actually several pins, and with your dry hand, you reach back, pull them out, and shake.

His voice is almost a whisper. "Oh my God I'm so helpless with this shit."

He stares and then comes at you so fast you freeze; he picks you up like you're weightless and runs you around the apartment. "Put me down!"

"I can't! You're too hot!"

"Seriously!" You're laughing but screaming, because a sloshy wet mug is still in your hands. "We're getting water on the floor!"

"Oh, shit." He races you back to the kitchen, you set it in the sink, and he sprints to the bedroom and flings you down on the bed and crushes you with all his weight. The frame cracks beneath you with a great shift and suddenly everything in the room looks wrong.

"Oh fuck, I am so sorry." He gets up and groans when he sees it, and you're at such an angle you naturally roll out to stand. It's still a minute, both of you looking at the splintered leg, and it's so shocking it's not funny.

"It's okay," you say quietly. "It's total Ikea shit from a long time ago, I needed a new one anyway."

"Can I pay for it?"

There's no way you're getting another cheap bed frame at Ikea, so no. But it'd be fun to pick it out together. "Maybe you can pay half," you lie, because you probably won't take his money. "The place where I got my living room set has great stuff - maybe we could swing by in the morning, before you have to work."

"Will we have time? Where is it?"

"It's actually a lot closer to your apartment than mine. Dinner's ninety five percent done, so we could bring it and spend the night over there, if you want."

"Would you mind? That'd be nice." He rubs the back of his neck. "God, I still can't believe that happened."

You change clothes and pack an overnight bag and put all the dinner things in a shopping bag - the chicken, arugula and tiny tomatoes, wine, cookies. Charlie, without help, gets the box spring and mattress flat on the floor and disassembles the broken frame into four pieces and hauls it all out to the trash. You make a throwaway remark about how it's amazing he can do all that - because he's so big and strong - but he's still super embarrassed.

_________________________________________________________________

He carries everything and you unlock his apartment with your own key, which he gave you with great ceremony on leather keyring that says _WORLD'S BEST PODIATRIST._

Unlike you, he keeps a tidy apartment and doesn't run to camouflage slovenliness when you get there. He flips on the lights and filters through his stack of mail while you preheat the oven and unload the food.

"Bills, bills, bills," Charlie says wanly as he sorts, then stops, probably so you'll both quit thinking about the money he just promised you.

A small pink envelope peeks out from the stack of uniform white ones and he sorts it behind the bills without comment, then sets the whole stack down. "Should I open the wine?"

"Sure. What's with the pink envelope?"

"Uh, I don't know."

"Why'd you hide it?"

"Because I'm not sure I want to read it."

"Why?"

"I just don't."

Your hackles rise. Something doesn't feel right, but you let it go for a while. You put the salad makings in the fridge, which has a shelf comically stacked with a bunch of Ziploc-bagged sandwiches. You should ask about it, but you're watching him closely for any tells. The dish goes in the oven, timer's set, you drain your wine glass too fast. Charlie takes a pair of plates down from a high cupboard but he's on edge, too; there should be music on. He should be more engaged with you, talking about his work and asking about yours.

It's thirty minutes until dinner, but even five more of this weirdness is unbearable. Might as well get it over with. "So what's with the pink envelope?"

"Oh, God." He looks to the ceiling and stretches his face downward with his hands, like a silent _Scream._ "Okay, so there's this girl..."

"Ah." Your blood pressure tremors in your eyeballs; the furniture store might as well be on the fucking moon it's so far away from you now. "A girl."

"In New York, I used to work with her. Among other things."

"Other things, okay. And?"

This is it. The fatal flaw you've worried about, and it's so hard to look at him.

"I still hear from her sometimes. About twice a year."

"About twice a year." Your practice of law never takes you to court, but the cadence learned in school is still there. "And why is that? If you know."

"Because she writes to me?"

Fuck him for trying to be cute. "When you say 'among other things,' what does that mean, exactly?"

"Your worst guess is probably correct."

"You must've been married during these 'other things.'"

"Barely," he snaps, and it's infuriating that he's more upset than _you_ are.

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"Look, I've been beat up for this before, so go ahead, come at me with both barrels," he barks. "In fact, here - you want to read it? So you can see how unrequited and fucking weird it is?" He shears the top open with a letter opener. "Here. Read it." He pulls the contents out and tosses it toward you - a card of Bleecker Street Records, and a thick folded rectangle covered in dense writing tips out onto the counter in front of you.

You push it aside like it's a stranger's used tissue. "I don't want to read it. I just didn't think you had anything like this."

"'This' isn't a thing, so by definition I can't have anything like it," he says, and it's such a dick move you take a cheap but necessary shot.

"Do you always fuck people you work with?"

"Until now, yeah! Pretty much, and it never works out, which is why it's insane that we're even fighting about it!" It's too late to pull back from any of this, and he's unusually ready for it. "I have zero secrets from you," he says, and gets a pen and writes on the back of the envelope. "My phone passcode is 454545. My e-mail password's Theorica, capitalized."

"Don't. Just...stop."

"The o is a zero."

You turn to...you don't even know what. Leave? But Charlie grabs your wrist with his free hand. "The i is a number one and a is an ampersand. You can check in anytime you like."

"Let go!" He pulls you into him like a dance move; he's too big to fight, though you struggle. You like being manhandled but this is different, and you're hot, sweaty, and furious.

"Honey, please." His voice is hot and urgent in your ear. "Can we please just talk about this?"

You're basically trapped in a cage of his body, and you're both breathing hard and freaked out this is happening. He flicks the card open and his chest is pressed against your back so tight you feel the words as much as hear them. "Dear Charlie. There's some things that still bother me and I'm going to air them. Even if you tear this up without reading it, maybe I'll get some closure." He bangs a pointed finger on it. "See? See?"

"You're seriously proud of that?" You wrench his arm off your waist and sink down to the floor; he's too big to stop you and you wiggle away, wondering how this got so far out of control.

"No. No, I'm sorry...please don't cry."

You hold up a hand. _Stop._ "I don't want your fucking passwords. I don't even recognize you right now."

Charlie swallows hard and slides down to the floor, slumps against the cabinetry and there are tears in his eyes, too. His voice gets low and calm. "I didn't think you'd ever find out and I'm sorry. There was a lot I wasn't getting at the time. Not just...that. It was a huge mistake. And not even my worst. "

You're thinking about the mistake he just made with you. "I don't want to see you that aggressive again. Like, ever."

He cringes. "You won't. It's just...you were walking away and I had to show you it wasn't worth worrying about." He examines his own hands in his lap and seems sort of lost. "The password stuff is leftover from a fight I should've had with Nicole. I'm sorry."

You wipe your eyes and don't like hearing about her - it's intimidating. All this theater shit is a world you don't understand, but he loves it and willingly lets it swallow him up six days a week. How compatible are you, really? Outside these little rendezvous that are always diamond-cut perfect because they're always too short?

"There's a reason I have the most boring job on earth, Charlie. I could be making piles more money than I am now, but you know what? I want zero drama at work - no big highs or lows. I want predictability and weekends off. I want a drama-free personal life, too, and you are...like, it's what you fucking _do."_

"It's not who I am, though."

"Really? You're having a years-old fight with Nicole in your head and some other girl's still writing to you. But all that aside, every grad student probably wants to fuck you and you're around actresses all the time now. Who are by definition younger and probably a lot more fun than me." He shakes his head, but you're right. "Charlie, come on. You know it's gonna fall in your lap again."

"Not if I won't let it," he says. "And while we're on the subject, I'm way more insecure about this relationship than you are."

That's news, and there's no reason for it. "Why?"

"Because you can't possibly want anything long-term with me. I've got ten tons of baggage, and I'm gonna be crawling out of a financial hole for I don't even know how long. Years, though, and between Henry and work I have almost no time for us, but..." He's tearing up again. "I can't pull back on either one of those things."

This is so hard. Seeing him like this, feeling selfish but still upset...it just flat-out hurts.

He looks at you, then down at the linoleum, defeated. "You can do better than this. You _should_ do better than this. Like...how do you think it makes me feel that I do laundry at your apartment to save money, like I'm still in my fucking twenties?"

"I love it, though. It's like playing house."

He nods with a slight smile. "I love it, too. Like the day I changed out the light fixture and you made pancakes." He faked a mild electrocution and you laughed so hard you couldn't breathe.

"Oh my God, yes."

The smile fades, but he's getting clearer, more himself. "I think about us a lot when we're apart. What it could be like someday. How to keep you interested with all my limitations so there _is_ a someday."

The smudge on his record isn't great, but you consider the present situation from the outside and start to see it differently. Every time he fucks you it's like he has a lifetime punch card with less than ten left on it, so he makes it count. Every meal goes down like he's starving. Every I love you lands right in his heart and shows in his eyes.

_It's going to be okay._

"If we're patient," you say. "I think long-term will happen without trying."

"I really hope so." He crawls over on all fours like a cat and sits beside you and slips an arm around you. It's enormously comforting to lean against him and a few minutes silence helps you both recover.

Charlie kisses the top of your head. "I wish it made sense to live together."

It's been discussed - given the immovable factors of where Nicole lives and where you work, it's grossly impractical. But if you did, the argument probably wouldn't have happened - because you'd know each other better and trust each other more. "Me too."

"Still, though. This is serious. I'm serious. And if I ever feel us pulling apart, I'll bring it up right away and put in whatever work it takes. Not pretend it's fine and look for something else."

"Good."

His hand squeezes your knee and he gets lighter, more conversational. "It's too bad you're so theater-averse. You should come with me sometime 'cause it'd help if you had a picture of what goes on. You'd worry less about girls falling in my lap, I think."

"Like I'd just...sit there?"

"Or watch, whatever. You could bring a book or play solitaire on your phone. There's a little office behind the sound booth with a nice couch. Henry reads in there sometimes."

Charlie's gone hiking with you, what? Three times now? And you haven't done much in return, aside from stuff you wanted to do anyway. "Okay. I will."

He tenderly runs his thumb along your cheekbone. "Can we please put this behind us?"

You can agree to that. His hand cups your face and a sweet, soft kiss opens up so wide you're not ready for it. Then another, that you are ready for, and a few more, and then his hands start doing things that mean before long, kissing won't be enough.

"Do you want to? Do we have time?" he asks, breathless.

"Yeah. Let's go."

He pulls you up by a hand, and it feels like a hug at first but then he's carrying you to the bedroom and sets you down with exaggerated care. "Your NuvaRing needs replacing this weekend," he says as he rolls in next to you. "Did you already do it?"

"No. I brought one, though."

"Good." He starts pulling his shirt un-tucked. "I'd like to pummel it one last time."

Your shirt's already on the floor. "Oh my God, rude."

His eyebrows lift sweetly. "Crude?"

"Yes."

"Nude. Take everything off. Now."

"So lewd."

"Am I?" One deft little pinch over your spine and your bra's off. "I'd like to get over our feud."

"You're fucking terrible."

"I'm not trying to joke my way out of being an asshole," he says sincerely. "But I really do think it's the best use of the next ten minutes."

You agree, and once you're both ready he pulls you on top. Slowly, carefully you sink down, and it's been so accelerated you're not quite ready after all - it doesn't hurt, but he feels fucking _huge._ It takes a minute to get used to him filling you up. It feels good enough, but then, your body catches up to your head and it suddenly gets slicker, better.

"Oh my God," he groans.

"Can you feel that?"

"Fuck yes, I can feel it." He sits up a bit, eyes fixed on where you join until it's too much and he has to look away. His profile belongs in sculpture, in a museum. "This once a week crap isn't enough."

"I agree." You grip the edge of headboard with both hands and bear down harder, faster.

"I wanna come with you," he moans, and he probably will. You've become so tuned-in to each other that as soon as one of you starts falling apart, the other often follows. "You scared me tonight. I didn't think we'd ever do this again."

"Nah. I love you too much."

"Oof. Say it again."

"I love you."

He bites his lip and whines softly. "I love you, too. This is it for me. Just you."

The heat starts tightening inside you and he takes a big gulp of air and grabs your hips. You're synching up and you watch the tension in his jaw...his face tenses more and more, and then he's bucking against you in waves and you're clenching around him, trembling and probably making too much noise but then he's coming with a roar and for a moment, his bed sounds like it's going to collapse, too.

After, when he's still, he looks different.

"You look younger."

"I wish I was," he says. You disengage and settle against him, and he kisses the top of your head and draws shapes on your bare back with his fingertip.

"Why are there a million sandwiches in your fridge?"

"I put together like twenty of them at a time and take three when I go to work."

"I should bring you something less carb-y than that."

"Mmm. I'd love it if you did."

Your eyes are starting to close. It's either from fucking, or the adrenaline knockout after the fight, and his hand on your back slows. "You set a timer, right?" he asks.

"Mm hmm." Suddenly you're thinking - maybe dreaming - about Greek chicken. Veggie orzo with lemon. Fancy stuff you can bring him, for a little highbrow picnic a few times a week. You won't be nervous or intimidated by theater people. Aren't you all dorks inside, underneath it all? You even smile a little, because Charlie might be the king.

Not much later, the timer chirps and you frown - dinner smells amazing, but for all the love and prep that went into it, eating seems so secondary now. You roll over and reach out for Charlie.

He's not in bed anymore, but he's in the doorway, dressed, with a dishtowel over his shoulder. "Tell me what to do," he says.

It takes a minute to wake up and remember. "Take it out, preheat the broiler, put provolone on it & put it back in for three or four minutes."

"Okay. Good call on the cookies, by the way. Very sweet of you."

"Maybe we can get the real thing in New York someday."

"I have no doubt we will." He leans against the door frame, relaxed and happy. "See you in three or four minutes."

You drag yourself up and get dressed, reluctant to get out of bed but you'll both be back in it soon enough. After cleaning up a bit in the bathroom, you come out to a lovely scene.

There's music on. Charlie's busy in the kitchen and humming along - the chicken smells restaurant-fantastic, and the table's already set. You won't look, but you have a feeling that he read what was in the pink envelope and put it in the trash.

He wraps and arm around your waist and kisses just below your ear. "I can tell you put a ton of work into this and I can't wait to try it. Oh, and this is for you," he says, handing you a full wine glass.

He might even write her back something innocuous, and that's fine. It doesn't bother you anymore.

He's yours now.


	3. Barber's Law of Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's opening night and the first time you really see Charlie's talent in action. Cocktails at the after-party might as well be truth serum and you've both got some work to do if things are going to get more serious.

The pace of Charlie's life ratchets higher as the play's opening night nears. He's been wound up and manic, tired but not tired. He's gone from snobbish _it's just rep_ to re-tooling the entire production, which is a play name you recognize but don't know much about.

Instead of an actor, he decided that the antagonist would be gravity.

_Fucking GRAVITY!_

He tweaked all necessary lines and wove them into other perspectives and mouths, and every time you bring him dinner at work, at least one of the actors in some weird position on the floor, like it's covered in glue.

Today you brought him a Greek meatball and veggie thing during a rehearsal break; while he's shoveling it in, you quietly corner his intern Tim.

"Opening night's Charlie's birthday," you whisper, and Tim clamps a squeal back with his hand. "But don't tell anyone because he'll die. Anyway, I want to kick in some money to make the after-party extra nice but he can't know about it 'cause he'll probably say no."

"Well," Tim says, clearly thrilled. "I'm saying yes! Okay, so it's gonna be at Vespaio across the street from the theater. There's some money built into the budget and Charlie said he'd pick up the rest of the bar tab himself, which he will definitely regret later."

"How much, would you guess?"

He chews his lip, does a little math. "Probably at least a thousand but less than two."

Considering your savings you can afford that, especially now that you've developed rudimentary cooking skills and aren't getting takeout six days a week. You quietly trade phone numbers and you outline what you have in mind. "Don't let him pay for anything, and if you're open to suggestions, spend the budget money on antipasto. It'll slow people down and give 'em something to do besides drink."

"That's a good idea. Can we do a cake?"

"We should," you grin. "But he'll fucking hate it."

Tim smiles, too. "True. But he can't get mad about cupcakes, you know? The target's too spread out."

"Totally. It's perfect."

"Oh, fuck me," Tim groans, because Charlie's up and walking to throw away the paperboard box you brought his dinner in. "How the hell does he eat so fast? I'll text you," he promises, and hurries back to work.

It's only then that you notice Henry pressed up against the wall. He's got a thick Harry Potter book under his arm, and his big brown eyes look up at you like he's been waiting. "Can we read?"

You'd only planned on dropping off dinner and talking to Tim, but you can stay longer. "Yes we can. Were you standing there the whole time? I'm sorry." You follow him to the couch in the little office. "Did you already eat?"

"Uh huh. With my mom."

"Okay, good. I would've felt bad if I brought something for your dad but nothing for you. Is the vegetarian thing still going good?"

"Yeah, but I had pepperoni the other day."

"Sometimes it's hard to say no. Okay," you have a seat. "Where'd we leave off." You pull out the bookmark he made in school and start reading.

You've been doing this with some regularity: you start off strong and stop every few sentences so he can read one out loud, too. His willingness to try harkens back to the day you met, with the trampolines. He knows about you and Charlie now and still isn't particularly warm to you, but treats you with the respect and trust he'd give a teacher.

As far as the reading goes, he gets a little bit better every time.

_________________________________________________________________

Charlie thinks his birthday present from you is a suite at the Omni for the weekend. It's a five minute walk to the theater, which makes sense for sleeping, changing clothes, and recharging without going all the way home. Plus there's a good chance at least one of you won't be fit to drive tonight.

You arrive at the hotel with your weekender bag and have a sweet archaeological expedition around the room to piece together what Charlie did when he was there earlier. He hung tomorrow's clothes in the closet and fanned out his things on the marble countertop in the bathroom. Drank a beer from the honor bar and probably looked out the window from the living area, where the Walt Disney Concert Hall complex glints like a pewter mountain a block and a half away.

A note's on your side of the bed, addressed to the pet name that's stuck since the night he woke up with you clinging to him like a backpack.

_Dearest (little) Spoon -_

_This is great!! I love it. I love you, too._

_Find me backstage after & we'll_

_walk over together._

_XOXO_

_C._

A white wine single from the minibar goes down nicely while you get ready; tonight feels like a debut of sorts for you, too, because Nicole and her family will be there. Even before you knew that, you fretted over what to wear and settled on a bottle green dress with a cluster of silk rosettes on one shoulder. Charlie gifted you an antique brooch several months into your relationship: a deeply strange beetle that's so ugly it's beautiful, and tucked into the roses, it's perfection.

You work on your face and do the extra layers you usually don't bother with: primer, corrector, concealer, and a weird wave of loneliness suddenly hits you, which you fucking _hate._

It's a post-Charlie phenomenon.

Pre-Charlie you could be alone for days and not notice it, much less be bored or bothered by it. But it's an empty sort of pain that creeps in and lingers behind your breastbone sometimes when you haven't seen him in a while. Even dressed up and walking into the crowded theater lobby you feel it. Sure he's somewhere in the building, but you could be anyone picking up your ticket from Will Call - a stalker, a stranger, a nobody. It's a weird (and maybe imagined) disconnection, but then warmth flushes your face when you find your seat and leaf through the playbill. At the bottom of the director's notes, along with thanks for several of the UCLA faculty and Tim, he's thanked you in print.

The play unfolds and you're immersed right away. You've seen disjointed scenes when bringing him food, but seeing it all put together is overwhelming; the pull and dread of gravity stretches into every character's life - one is chained to an exploitative job to feed a family, another is unable to make art, another dies on the floor.

You've put too much work into your makeup to wreck it, so toward the end of the second act you have to look at the ceiling and breathe and wait. You think about vacations you'd like to take and easement contracts you've been working on, and there's a full fifteen minutes of the play you don't even see because you can't handle it - it's pulling threads of your own life so hard the fabric puckers, and you can't be the only one in the theater to feel that way. You are so, so proud of Charlie, and the applause at the end is deafening. The actors drag him onstage after their own bows, and he gives a shy wave and it gets even louder.

Backstage is a flurry of noise and people, most of it circling Charlie like electrons. It's ticklishly uncomfortable how starstruck you feel.

"Oh, hey!" His eyes are bright. "What did you think? Did you like it?"

"I loved it."

"Good." He pushes a kiss into your hair. "Oh, you wore your beetle! It looks great."

 _He_ looks great. You've never seen him in a full-on suit and tie and it elevates every shallow visual you already like about him. "Thanks. Hey, is there anyplace we can be alone before we head over?

"Yeah, why?"

You whisper why and his eyes widen. "Hey! Attention, please!" Two huge claps make the noise die down and he addresses his troupe. "You guys head over and get a good head start, and don't be shy 'cause drinks are on me." A little cheer erupts, and with surprising grace for his size, he takes your hand and pulls you through a maze of cables and crap and narrow hallways. Trotting every few steps is necessary to keep up, and finally you're both in a small, mostly empty dressing room behind a locked door. You said you were gonna blow him, but he immediately goes for your face, cradling your face in his hands.

"No kissing," you insist. "Because makeup."

"We'll _make up_ for it later," he says sweetly. "Get it?"

"Sadly, yes."

The soft, smooth cotton of his shirt easily pulls un-tucked and you start working on his belt. He's already slightly interested, and you consider the present environs and get an idea.

You reach over to flip the switch that turns on the mirror-framing lights, then put your hands on the vanity and bend over. Your eyes meet Charlie's in the mirror. "Grind up against my ass until you can't stand it anymore."

His mouth unconsciously drops open for a moment, and he swallows and steps up behind you as you sink down to your forearms. His huge hands tentatively roam your body and he unzips the back of your dress a few inches. "I already can't stand it," he says, and a warm, thick finger slides to rest in the groove of your spine under your bra while the other hand cups your hip. You wiggle back and he pushes against you. Your eyes meet again, and he says, "We should fuck like this sometime."

Surely there's a similar desk and mirror configuration back at the hotel. "Maybe tonight."

"That'd be nice." You rub against him and he bends over and bites your shoulder, not hard but enough to elicit a little sound, and his arm circles your waist. You thought this encounter would be relatively tidy and contained but it might be turning into something else.

He bites again, harder. "Charlie!" you squeal, and his voice is hot on your back.

"Fake an orgasm for me," he says, and you butt back into him with breathless open-mouth moans until he's slobbered all over you and rock hard. 

It's your cue to rear up, turn around, and descend, undoing his lower shirt buttons and tracing your nose down his stomach. Belt, one last button, zipper, and he's helping because he can't wait. You perch on the little upholstered seat in front of the vanity, so he can still watch in the mirror, if he wants.

There's a wet pearl waiting for you on the tip of his dick and he shivers the second you take him in your mouth. "I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of that suite tonight."

"Mmm, good." You don't do this often because you both love being face-to-face and having the same fun, but he's always appreciative and amazed when it happens.

"Is it okay if I touch your hair? I won't pull."

"Mmm hmm."

"Good." His neck cranes up to the ceiling and he takes a deep, slow breath. "This is easily the best birthday of my life," he says, and leaves you to your work.

He tastes so good...there's no reason you shouldn't be doing this all the time. He's thinking it, too. "I fucking _love_ this," he says, absently stroking your hair. "I thought about us all day...it was weird, I couldn't focus on anything else. Even with how important tonight is. Oh..." His hand tightens, then loosens when he realizes it. He's dick-deep in your mouth when he groans, "Goddammit...fucking _marry_ me."

You disengage, leaving him bobbing. "Charlie!"

"What?" He knows full well how ridiculous this and wears a beautiful, wide smile. 

"Oh my God. Ask when you have pants on!"

"Do pants around ankles count?"

"No!"

"Okay, fine. I love you, though. Little spoon." The jokes are over and he shudders when you dive back in. Soon, he's leaking in your mouth and breathing heavy. Your hands grip the backs of his thighs and you try a little harder, but your mind races.

He's getting rare head.

_He couldn't have meant that._

"Don't stop. Just like that, don't stop..."

He's watching in the mirror when he comes with a ragged whine, filling your mouth and pulling your hair despite his promise not to. It's a lot, but you swallow, and despite your earlier plea he bends to steal a taste with a big, lush kiss.

"Hey, makeup!" you say, but he takes what he wants anyway, licking the inside of your mouth and pulling your dress up your thighs.

He tries to push you to sit on the vanity. "Let me do the same for you," he says, and if you weren't so invested in his party, you'd probably say yes.

"No. Come on, everybody's expecting you. And how bad does my lipstick look now?"

"You're beautiful," he says, and but in the mirror your once crisp lip-line is a fog; you fix it up as best you can with what's in your purse while Charlie gets his clothes situation respectable again.

"That," he proclaims, once he's put back together. "Was really fun."

"Totally. I feel like a groupie!"

"Told you I could get you to appreciate theater," he says dryly, and you exit the little room laughing and fake-punching each other's arms.

Holding his hand on the short walk to the party is like being with a celebrity. Everyone has something to nice say, and plenty just stare. Vespaio is warmly-lit and packed, with platters of speared olives and rolled-up proscuitto circulating the bar. "Where the fuck's Tim," Charlie says. "Hey, Tim!"

He was already approaching you with a drink in each hand. "Yeah?"

"What's with the food? Am I paying for all this?"

"Uh, no. You have a generous benefactor who took care of it."

"Oh." His expression completely changes. "Who was it, so I can thank them properly?"

"They wish to remain anonymous," Tim says, and hands you each a highball glass filled with ice and amber.

"Holy shit," Charlie says, but doesn't dwell on it because Henry runs up to him.

"Good job, dad."

"Thanks, honey." He ruffles his hair and you're surprised a kid could sit through that whole thing, but then...it's _his_ kid, so it's probably woven into his DNA.

Two women stand where Henry came from, and Charlie introduces you. Sandra and Cassie are about what you expected.

"We all loved it," Sandra says. "Nicole ran into a friend and she'll be here in a minute. But we all loved it, Charlie. Just like we love you." Her eyes graze your shoulder and she smiles at you. "What an interesting pin, I love it!"

"Thank you."

"I helped dad pick it out," Henry says. "It was either that or one that was a plainer design of not a beetle, and we both thought this was the best one."

You're tempted to ruffle his hair like Charlie does but decide not to. "And you were so right."

These women are calculating how well Henry knows you and what it means for Nicole. You're calculating what you know of them, and how much they've exaggerated in their own heads what an asshole Charlie is. Some percentage of the retaliatory planning and ambush you've heard about is probably justified, but not all of it. There's just no way.

"Cassie, you actually introduced us," Charlie says. "Remember the yoga punch card?"

"Oh, wow! Are you a yoga instructor?" Said as if it's inferior to whatever she does.

"No. That's where we met."

"Was he any good?"

"At yoga? No. Not at all."

He shakes the ice in his drink, smiling as his free arm slips around you. "I don't have to take this abuse," he says mildly, and Cassie's attention swings over to you.

"So what do you do?" she asks. "Besides put up with Charlie."

"I'm in-house counsel for Edison International."

"Oh, okay, but what does that mean day-to-day? Sorry, I don't know anything about law."

 _You know enough about family law to drag your sister to eleven law firms to paralyze him before he even knew what was happening._ "Basically, I look for flaws."

"Really?" Sandra asks. "How so?"

"Every word of contracts or marketing copy has to be imagined out into the future and considered through different eyes to see if it isn't perfect."

"How interesting."

"Yeah. We basically grind bare language down till no one can misinterpret anything, even when they want to. It's a useful filter to see things through outside of work, too. It cleans up personal relationships like you can't believe."

You give Cassie a cold stare and Charlie downs his drink so fast you hear the scratchy suck of air against the ice; you're being passive aggressive as hell and almost sorry that Sandra's no longer making eye contact, because you've heard she's so nice.

"So G-Ma," Charlie breaks in. "Henry says you're growing roses with names now? Is that like Barry and Steve, or..."

"No, silly! It's cultivar names."

"Well please forgive my ignorance." Charlie gets Sandra talking about gardening. He sets his empty glass down and strokes the silk on your back like a cat with one hand and plays with Henry's hair with the other. Cassie glares at you, and you get a little flutter of pleasure that despite the sweating glass in your own hand, you've barely had any of its contents and Charlie's come still lines your throat.

The little genteel encounter lasts a bit longer than you'd like, until Tim blessedly swings by and claps Charlie on the back. "Hey, chief. You wanna say a few words?"

"Guess I'd better," he says, and you all share a polite four-way goodbye/nice to meet you and Charlie leads you away by the hand.

You watch from the side as Tim ting-tings a wine glass and every eye is on Charlie. "I am so, so proud of you all." He's tearing up already. "My expectations were already high, but each and every one of you took it so much further. Not just tonight. You put in the work, and it paid off. Joe. Where's Joe?" He finds him and points. "I'm a little bit afraid of you, now. And Annie, you are so strong, but you know just how to bend." He's relaxed. Natural. Beautiful. "You know, I used to think good theater couldn't happen outside a certain meridian and parallel, and I was grossly mistaken. Thank you all for proving me wrong."

There's applause, and his eye catches the cupcakes being passed around in the back. "Oh no. That better not be for me." Someone hands him one with a lit candle and a laugh ripples through the room. "Fuck you all. Fuck everybody in this room!" he shouts, smiling, and soon the bar vibrates with a lot of voices that can really sing. His eyes lock on yours when he blows out the candle and makes his wish.

You get a little thrill from it, but your stomach seizes up just as Nicole appears on your far periphery; you recognize her right away.  
  
She zeros in and knows exactly who you are, too, and starts walking your way.

"Hi. I'm Nicole." A small, warm hand clasps yours. "It's nice to finally meet you. Henry adores you."

"Aww. Sometimes I'm not sure, so that's good to hear."

"He likes what you're doing with with Harry Potter."

"They're such great books. I remember lugging around a big chapter book at that age and feeling so grown up."

"Right!? Me too!" She is really pretty, and you can't help but like her. "Anyway, thank you for helping him with that."

"Oh, sure. It's been fun," you say, and wonder if you'll still be around when Henry graduates. Even though you've only seen it once, you say, "I love your show. Like, a lot."

"Isn't it so weird? I love my job."

"I bet you do."

Charlie's watching the two of you from a distance. Slightly concerned, maybe, but mostly watching. "Oh my God. Look at him."

Nicole notices, too. "You know he can't stand it. Oh look, here he comes."

He makes his way across the room, swimming upstream and dodging admirers until he's beside you again. "Well, this is alarming."

"Oh, stop," Nicole says, and turns her attention back to you. "I'm gonna go find my fam, but it was so great to meet you."

"You too."

"Nice job tonight." Nicole stretches up to kiss Charlie's cheek and as his free arm embraces her, her hand somehow finds and squeezes yours. And then she's gone.

You're glad it's over. You're glad it was good.

Charlie's still got his cupcake and licks a swoosh of frosting off the top. "How'd that go?"

"Very well."

"Good. Hey, let's go hide in that little hallway off to the side so I can eat this in peace."

The corridor connects the bar to the main restaurant but no one's using it, and Charlie carefully coaxes the wrapper off so not a single crumb is left behind. "Damn this looks good. Did you get one too?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Have some of mine."

"Nah."

"Yah." He holds it up in front of your mouth, so you take a downy-sweet bite, and suddenly you're not alone in the hallway anymore.

"Excuse me, Charlie? Mr. Barber?"

Charlie turns around. "Yes? Hi."

"Sorry to interrupt your night. Charles McNulty, LA Times. I saw it two nights ago in preview but I had to come see it again. It's...unreal. You're unreal. I just had to meet you."

"Oh wow, thanks." The cupcake transfers to you and they shake hands. "Thank you for taking the time."

"I swear I never do this. The review comes out tomorrow."

"Much appreciated. I can't wait to read it."

"I think you'll be pleased. By the way, Ben Brantley's flying from New York next week just to see it. He said New York's loss is our gain and he's absolutely right about that." His eyes brush over you, and he says, "Sorry again for the interruption, I'll let you two get on with your night. Happy birthday. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"You too."

This is a lot.

"Holy shit," Charlie breathes.

"Way to go, famous," you say, and he seems a bit floored, too.

"Crazy." He shakes his head. "I need a drink."

Before he gets one, he finds the bakery box of cupcakes and picks out three more - one for you, two for him, and the party gradually swallows you both up. He accepts every compliment, every drink, and you feel in over your head, and so in love at the same time. The inside jokes with his crew are ten layers deep so you finally stop asking what they mean. _Genius_ is lobbed at him, over and over. _Where does it come from, Charlie,_ and always he says he doesn't know. _What's next,_ they ask, and he says something even better.

The imbibing soon catches up with him and he's a little drunk; during a rare break in attention he subtly pulls you aside and slow-dances you back to the quiet little hallway. His eyes shine as he backs you up against the wall and says, "Let's have a baby."

Your stomach lurches with both yes and no; it's always been a vague maybe but you can see it with him. Someday. "Didn't you kinda just have one?"

He's dazed and doesn't understand. "Huh?"

"The play? Isn't that like having a kid? An artist friend said something like that once."

"It's not even close. Anyway, if you're still putting up with me in a year, I'm gonna bring it up again. And the year after that, too."

"Okay?" It certainly doesn't sound terrible, but...where is all of this coming from? Charlie leans in and gets right up against your ear, low and slow.

"Think how much fun it'd be to start trying. Nothing between us, nothing keeping it out of reach, just straight up fucking until it happens."

His voice tickles and your hands sneak under his jacket and join behind his back. "Where's all this big stuff coming from tonight?"

"From me. You want some more?"

"Sure." You smile coyly. "Why not."

"I wanna kick my friend Teddy out of my New York apartment and get a bigger place here and go back and forth. If I could do fall semester here and then Henry could spend the summer with us over there..."

"Oh, so I'm there, too?"

"Well yeah! I always picture you with me."

"What's my New York job?"

He blinks. "What?"

"What's my job?"

"Uh, the same as here, I guess."

"Do I like it there?"

He darkens instantly but tries to hide it with a tight smile. "I dunno. Probably not."

"Then maybe don't sign me up for it." You smile and try to keep it light, because it's far too big a conversation for a random public hallway and there's no way you two are going to figure this out tonight.

"Fine. I won't."

He pulls away and you reach for his hand for some contact, to show him things are okay, but it's about as warm as holding onto an empty catcher's mitt. You follow him a few more minutes before deciding you aren't interested in this.

"I think I'm gonna go back to the room, but you stay out as long as you want."

"Honey, no-" He softens. "I'm sorry."

"I swear it's not why you think. This is your deal tonight and you should have as much fun as you can. I just really can't keep up with all the inside jokes and I'm dying to get out of these shoes."

He agrees to pretend this is why. "I'll be there soon," he says, and mildly argues that you shouldn't walk alone but then you prove there's mace in your purse and he lets you go.

Back at the room, you feel small stepping up to one of the twin sinks in the huge marble-lined bathroom. You strip of all your makeup and cease being the glamorous girlfriend and put on the soft pajamas you'd be wearing any other night at home; the black lace slip you thought Charlie might enjoy pulling off with his teeth will have to have its premiere another night. You tuck into bed and watch TV, wondering how long he'll be out and what state he'll be in by the end.

Charlie shows up an hour later. He moves around the living area trying to be quiet, so you get up to show you're awake and he doesn't need to.

He's wrestling off his shoes with unusual difficulty and seems agitated. "Something very fucking weird just happened."

"Yeah? What?"

"Tim said the generous benefactor paid for everything. Gratuity, everything."

"That's good, right?"

"I guess so, but who does that?" He sits down on an ottoman and starts taking his tie off with his head hung so low his hair falls in his eyes. "Maybe Nicole, she's got money now. It's probably an apology for dragging me out here."

It stings, but you keep your demeanor as neutral as possible.

"Charlie, what's going on with you? Are you okay?"

"No."

"Tonight was so great. You should be happy."

"I am. I was."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No, but I'm gonna." He takes a deep breath and his tie slides off with one long pull. "I'm trying to keep my selfishness in check but it's so fucking hard. New York still pulls on me because I'm different there. Honey, I'm so much better there."

He reaches out for you and you stand between his knees; he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your chest. Aromatherapy's always seemed like a stretch, but the lavender body cream you used last night perfumes your pajamas and you hope it'll help him settle down. You comb fingers through his hair and ask, "What about tonight? Aren't you're just as good here?"

"It's not the same. And there's a lot of big things I want that involve you and I have a history of railroading people into doing what I want. Like fuck..." He lifts up to meet your eyes. "Backstage tonight - you said no kissing and I still did it."

True. "Yeah, but I let you."

"I guess." He burrows back into your cleavage. "Anyway, every month it feels like Henry needs me a little less so maybe New York part-time could work someday. But I can't even guess whether you'd like it. And I'm not sure you want kids at all, much less with me."

"I mean..." The pangs of loneliness suddenly make sense: you're stuck in your own personal limbo, and he's stuck in a completely different one of his own. "We can't even find a way to live together, Charlie. This is all so far away from where we are now."

He nods and swallows, nose thick with snot. "A couple nights ago I had a dream that we had a baby girl. It was so real I can still feel her weight in my hands if I think about it."

It gives you chills to think about, and Charlie starts crying.

"My whole life I've wanted a stable family, and I'm so aware that I'm dragging you down into my shit it makes me wanna puke. But I don't want us to be mid-fight next year pretending we haven't known all along what this is. I'm sorry."

One of your hands finds its way down past his shirt collar and flattens on the warm skin of his back. You keep it there for a long time and hope that the lavender and love might get through to him. "Charlie."

"What," he sniffs.

"We can start talking about all this stuff. Like the way we're wired opposite can only help us figure it out." 

"Okay." His face lifts from your chest, tear-streaked and tired. "Thank you."

"Do you wanna just go to bed?"

"Yeah." He sits back and wipes his eyes. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

He gets ready for bed, and when he slides under the covers you curl up behind him and he grips your hand tight over his chest. You nibble the shell of his ear.

"You're so good to me," he sighs. "I love you, spoon."

"I love you, too."

His breathing levels out almost right away but you're awake for a long time. You consider how this might spin out later: Charlie's ambitions, which are actually concrete needs, the two coasts, the family you might have, and the other family that will never go away.

You think about the security you've built into your adult life, and how colorless it was before Charlie. 

It's a lot with him, sometimes. But it's not too much.

_________________________________________________________________

In the morning you find that Charlie's wound himself so tight in the top sheet it looks like a shroud. You quietly get up, use the bathroom, and fish a travel size bottle of ibuprofen out of your makeup bag in case he needs it.

There's even a phone in the bathroom, so you call room service. "Hi, I'm in room number...um..."

They miraculously know. "Nine twenty."

"That sounds right. Can you please send up the biggest, darkest carafe of coffee you have? Half and half, no sugar. And a copy of the Times."

"Of course. And can we get you anything for breakfast?"

"Um...I think I'll wait till my husband's awake. Thank you."

It's fun to try out saying it.

"We'll have that up to you soon, Ms. Barber."

It's fun to hear it, too. 

You hang out in the living area and wait for the gentle knock on the door. The coffee comes set up on a pretty tray with a little vase of pink Alstromeria, and the Times is even tied with a gray grosgrain ribbon. You take it to the bedroom, where Charlie's still wrapped up but awake.

He blinks as he gets used to the light and props up on his elbows. "I know you're the generous benefactor," he says. "Tim told me last night after you left."

It has to be a trap. "No he didn't."

"Sweetheart, please. It couldn't have been anyone else. Thank you."

"You deserved a nice party."

"And it was. You shouldn't have spent all that on me, though."

You set down the tray and start fixing up his coffee the way he likes it. "My overhead's been low and I saved up a lot lately without trying. How long did it take you to pay off our first date, by the way?"

"A couple months."

"Did you regret it?"

"Never."

"This is the same thing." You hand him his cup and sit cross-legged on the bed with your own.

The formality of saucers with your two cups is nice, with all the the gentle clinking. Quite civilized and lovely in this beautiful room, with the eggshell walls and dark woods and Charlie sitting up now, with his hair a dark, luscious mess.

He groans happily at how good the coffee is. "I'm sorry I was such a mess last night. God...I never drink that much."

Is he taking it back? "How much do you remember?"

"All of it. Every word."

You lower your eyes and sip. "I didn't think you'd ever want to do it all over again."

"I do. Henry wasn't planned. Nothing about that marriage was planned, and lately I've been wondering what it could be like if it was. You already think that way."

True. 

"But I realize all decisions have to be joint, and I like what you said last night about being wired opposite. I love that you're so practical."

"I love your big squishy genius heart."

He rolls his eyes but you know he likes hearing it. "So I've been thinking about taking Henry back east next month since his spring break overlaps with mine. You should come, too. If you hate New York, you'll know it the first day."

"And if I do?"

"The same thing that happens anyway. We stay together forever and every year I get blown in front of a mirror on my birthday."

"Very funny."

His closed smile is as warm as the coffee, and you nudge the newspaper toward him. "Read your review."

"Read it to me," he says, and nudges it back. You pull the paper apart and sort through to find the entertainment section. Charlie takes a big drink and watches your progress with his deep, dark eyes.

You search a bit more, find the headline, and smile.

"BARBER'S LAW OF GRAVITY: REDCAT purrs under LA's hottest import."

"Oh my God. It doesn't say that."

"Oh, but it does."

"Read the rest," he says, and you knee-walk closer to him and settle in. His hand finds your thigh, and he leans against you, closes his eyes, and listens.


End file.
